Night Fears
by Sailor Latias
Summary: On these nights, she's glad sleep isn't one of her best friends, because sometimes she needs to be reminded.


Sometimes the person we love most is frightened by something we cannot ever understand, no matter how hard we try to wear their shoes, to see from their eyes.

She stirs in their bed and wakes up to silence, the soft snores from her partner barely registering as they become one with her heavy breathing. She's back, she's home now, here in Storybrooke. She in her sweaty spaghetti strap, she's here. That's all that matters. Nothing can hurt her here. There are no obvious monsters here as there are in the Enchanted Forest, no wicked fairys or power-hungry sorcerers.

But still, she is afraid.

She wants to wake her lover, to curl up in her beloved's arms and fall asleep again wrapped in her familiar touch. She wants to cry on her shoulder and be reassured the nightmares are only images her mind conjures up to try and heal her of regrets in her waking life. She wants nothing more than to stay awake until the morn, for dawn draws near and there is nowhere of importance she knows she needs to be today.

But she cannot.

Usually, when nights like these occur, she endures them and reminds herself the world of Storybrooke has different rules. Everything is gray. Even if she is not yet capable of pulling her own weight, help will still be offered as a safety net. There is, however, no safety net for her own personal hell. Her mind forbids any to enter, and nothing will change unless it is involuntary, an act of whatever deity that resides in this realm. So for now she endures her pain. She sneaks a glance at her lover, the girl whose body and soul sync with hers, and musters a smile for her even though she needn't.

Her breathing stabilizes, and once it does, she rips away the comforter and nearly falls. Her legs are weak, and in pulling herself up she finds she is shaking, both from the coldness of the floor and around her. In the moment her mind is clear, and that's enough. She heads for the washroom just a few feet away, supporting herself with a hand on the wall. When did she become like this?

She gently shuts the door and sits on the tiled floor in silence for a time, not looking in the mirror or even using the built-in candle stick that ran through the insides of the walls. She pulls her knees to her chest and tries to clear her head. Think of something that makes her happy, like spending time with her cherished love, seeing her eyes widen at the new and strange enchanted objects Emma and Snow often spoke fondly of. Yes, look at her remark at the absurdity of the strange belts and buckles in this world's small and unusual-looking carriages. Or when she discovered the chamberpots in this realm emptied themselves with a loud roar at the push of a silver handle. Or even when she recognized people she knew but did not, like Little Red Riding Hood, or Belle, or even Jiminy Cricket. That Cricket.

These flashes of memories made her smile. Yes, these were wondrous times, but with everything good, there was always something unpleasant to balance. Two carriages crashed into one another, and innocents were harmed. The washroom the chamberpots were in enhanced sound, so privacy was even less. And the people, their clothing was somewhat of an eyesore for the first few days.

Nights were by far the worst. Creatures Emma called planes and hello-copters flew by from time to time, the annoying rumblings of their hearts preventing sleep from coming as they neared and went away. Sometimes there was light outside her window from those carriages passing by. Other times still, she was drenched in her own separate horrors created in the proximity of her own head.

By that thought, she remembered why she was here: sitting on the floor of the washroom in the middle of the night, wanting her love for comfort but refusing to wake her in order to do so, wanting to just scream as loud as she desired in this accursed room that taunted her with the promise of seclusion.

Visions of the nightmares returned.

She holds her head in her hands, and silently begs for them to leave. She might deserve them - she does deserve it to some degree, as she chose the path of which they would inevitably cross - but their meetings were never as bad as tonight. Tonight they are hounding her without mercy. Tonight they are the strongest because she chose to leave the warm sheets of her bed, and subsequently her beloved, behind.

She begins to weep, and at first she tries to stifle the noise by standing and turning on the water. She doesn't want to look in the mirror, afraid of what she might see, if her terrors have manifested in a physical being to come in for the kill. The mere idea works her up, and she turns the knobs again. The sound won't get any louder, and it's at that point the water suddenly begins to darken to a familiar blood red. She backs away from it in fear, and a strangled, almost feral screech makes its way to her ears. She sees the backs of her partner and Phillip and arrows are flying towards them. Flaming arrows. Flames...

_please run away don't get hit just get out of the way move she screams but the arrows hit and the two collapse at her feet and blood oh so much blood too much fire it burns the smoke make it stop don't die don't die don't die don't die DON'T DIE_

No, wait... Something is coming. Something from inside.

She rushes to the chamberpot and heaves into it, not even bothering to get her hair out of the way. Mid-heave, her hair is pulled back and a familiar hand is placed on her back, patting it gently. The sound of water is no longer running, and for the first time that night there was complete and total silence. She doesn't look at her girlfriend even though she had woken up for her. _Because_ of her. Her stomach stops misbehaving, but the tears keep coming.

Her lover cleans her up without a word. She closes the mouth of the chamberpot, ties back the hair she held, wets a little bit of the white roll from next to the chamberpot and wipes her mouth with it, and then empties the container after throwing the little napkin in, lidding it and pulling the handle. She exhales when the usual loud roar of the pot is softened considerably. When there is nothing left for her to fix, she sits down behind her and waits patiently for her to tell her what happened, and when she tired of waiting, persuades her to come back to bed with the promise of talking about it later on.

They settle back into their respective sides, now cold and uninviting. She shivers and tries to merge their bodies together which gets a small chuckle out of her tired partner. She rests her head on her lover's arm and clings to her, trembling, silently pleading for her comfort. Her girlfriend pulls her closer, as close as they could possibly be, and kisses her forehead, runs her hand down her long hair while taking out her loose ponytail and flinging the tie to the floor. She wraps the entirety of the blanket around her and wipes her tears away.

"Next time," she whispers, her voice almost inaudible, "Please wake me when you need me. I won't be angry."

She nods and tries to respond, but all she can manage is a pathetic whimper. They both know she wouldn't, though, and as she drifts off to sleep in the arms of her beloved, she promises herself she will never wake her for something so trivial. Next time, she'll sleep on the couch.

Her girlfriend remains awake, stroking her hair long after she dozes off. She is there to greet the first rays of sun that slips into their room. In a few hours she will separate herself and surprise her dear one with breakfast in bed. Then, and only if she was willing, they would talk over what happened. Maybe pay a visit to that nice man, Archie Hopper. Emma said he listened to people's problems all the time. Surely he could help them.

On these nights, she's glad sleep isn't one of her best friends, because sometimes she needs to be reminded Mulan gets nightmares too.


End file.
